Sunshine of Your Love
by FarDareisMai2
Summary: Eric n' Sooks-Summer of '69 One-shot Contest. Sookie goes to Berkeley and Eric goes to Vietnam, yet their worlds are inevitably and inexplicably drawn together, as the events of the 1960's irrevocably change them. This is an all human E/S story. Rated M!


**Eric n' Sooks - Summer of '69 One-shot Contest**

**Title: Sunshine of Your Love  
**

**Your Pen name:FarDareisMai2**

**Characters: Eric/Sookie**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Sookie Stackhouse books, Charlaine Harris does. I just like to play in her sandbox.**

_A/N: This is my entry to the Eric n' Sooks - Summer of '69 One Shot Contest._

_My undying gratitude to my betas on this one: **Gallathea** and **mischeviousmaya**. Thank you so very much for making sure my "i's" were dotted and my "t's" were crossed. Thank you for calling me out my overuse of the same word, and on my inconsistencies. And to **Kristin**, who let me know that I "got it right." Thank you, thank you, thank you._

_I also have to give my enormous thanks to my girl, my sisterfromanotherdecade, **Ila aka Michelle** and her husband **Drew**, both Marines (can I get an Oorah?!) who helped me get some of the military facts straight. Also, a big thanks to **eod **__for letting me know that I got the military "vibe" right. You guys all rock my world, and any mistakes that still exist in this story are all mine._

_On that note, I'd like to thank the veterans of the Vietnam War, and their families. They fought in a thankless war and sacrificed their lives, their bodies, and their sanity, and they have my gratitude for their sacrifices. I hope that I do their stories justice here, and that I do not insult anyone with any errors or mistakes, or presumptions, as such is not my intention. Much of my information on the parts of the war I talk about here comes from **Everything We Had**, by Al Santoli. If you've never read it, do so.  
_

_Finally to all my friends at the Eric thread here at the Sookieverse, and my friends at the Eric thread on the HBO wiki, your support for my writing and my stories moves me to no end, and I couldn't, wouldn't, do any of this without you._

_The title of the story comes from the song, Sunshine of Your Love, by Cream. Take a listen, it's a great song.  
_

I suppose I should begin at the beginning. Or, should I weave it like a fairy tale? _Once upon a time_ . . . Only how would that story go? Once upon a time, there was this girl, and she wanted to see the world. So, she kissed her grandmother goodbye, and got in an old car in a backwater town in Louisiana, and headed west.

It was the summer of 1967, the Summer of Love. I was eighteen years old, and just out of high school. Bon Temps High, home of the Panthers. When I was twelve, my best friend Tara and I used to imagine how it would be when we were in high school. We would be cheerleaders, our boyfriends would be on the football team, and we would marry them when we graduated high school. Our dresses would be just like Jackie's, and our husbands would gaze on us with same adoration as JFK bestowed upon her. We would have fat, smiling babies, and every Fourth of July, we'd bring them down to Main Street to watch the parade.

Then, at 12:30 p.m., on November 22, 1963, my world came crumbling down. A madman armed with a rifle sat in a book depository in Dallas, Texas, and quite literally blew my world apart. In an instant, my innocence was shattered. As I watched the images of Jackie in her pink suit and pill box hat, desperately scrambling to reach help, I felt the axis of my world shift. Everything I'd known, everything I'd believed, was destroyed in an instant. Little did I know how much more could, and would, be taken from me.

At the time of Kennedy's death, Vietnam was still just some foreign word. Sure, the press and the politicos knew all about it, and the rest of us knew that we had to fight Communism—Nikita Khrushchev was the enemy—but none of us really understood what Vietnam was. Hell, most of us didn't even know _where_ Vietnam was, or why we should care about it.

That changed for us in the summer of 1965. My brother, Jason, and his best friend Terry, decided to join the Marines when they graduated high school. We were all so proud of them, and when they went off to basic training, the entire town saw them off at the bus station. Gran cried, and I knew she was thinking of her brother and of my father, but I couldn't think that way. I _wouldn't_ think that way. Instead, I imagined how handsome Jason would look in his uniform. He was always a looker, and the girls just loved him in high school. He had a bit of a reputation, but truth be told he was sweet as pie and just as dumb. He was the school's star quarterback, and that ensured his popularity with everyone, especially the girls.

My great-uncle Bartlett had been killed in WWII, during the Battle of Bastogne. My father had served in Korea, and was captured and held as a POW right before the end of the war. He wound up killing himself and my mother when Jason and I were kids. They called it an "accident," but I'd overheard Gran talking to Mike Spencer, the undertaker. It was how I learned that my dad had shot my mom before turning the gun on himself, and how we ended up living with my Gran.

So, when we saw Jason and Terry off that day, I knew Gran was thinking about Uncle Bartlett and my parents, and I hugged her real tight. Still, Tara and I were excited. We imagined Jason and Terry coming home in time for prom, wearing their dress uniforms. Truth was Tara had been in love with my brother since we were in pigtails, and I had to admit that in the last year, I'd noticed just how nicely Terry filled out his football uniform.

At first, both Jason and Terry seemed to be blessed. They were sent to Camp Pendleton, in California, where they were both trained as snipers. Seems our good old boys, who'd all grown up hunting in the woods and swamps of Louisiana, had a knack for marksmanship, and Jason and Terry were two of the best shots in Renard Parish. When they weren't training, they were enjoying themselves on the beaches of Southern California, learning to surf and trying to get into girls' bikinis.

Then, in March 1967, both Jason and Terry were shipped off to Vietnam, and for the first time since kindergarten, they were separated. Jason joined the 1st Battalion, 26th Marines, at Khe Sahn, as a sniper. To this day, I don't rightly know where Terry was sent. He never spoke of it. Suddenly, Vietnam was on the lips of every citizen of Bon Temps, and my world began to be more global.

Around the same time, Tara and I got our acceptance letters from the University of California at Berkeley, and we trembled with excitement at the thought of traveling cross-country. While Bon Temps was off the beaten path, we weren't completely isolated, and Tara and I longed to be part of the counterculture revolution taking place everywhere, and anywhere, but our little corner of the world. We read with fascination and jealousy about the Human Be-In at Golden Gate Park that January, and we were ready to take Leary's advice to turn on, tune in, and drop out. When we got our letters of acceptance, we knew that it didn't matter where else we got in; we were heading for the Bay. We were going to spend the summer in the City, and then start Berkeley in the fall.

Tara and I pooled our savings from our weekend job at Merlotte's to buy a used Ford Falcon, and on a hot June day, just a week after graduation, we loaded it up and hit the road. Gran made us promise to call her at least twice from the road, and when we got there. It took us about five days to travel the two thousand miles to San Francisco. We drove into the city and followed the flow—straight to the Haight.

By that night, we were high as kites and feeling just as pretty. The Haight was packed with people, so we made our way to Golden Gate Park, and just camped out. There was free food, and lots of people hanging out, making love, and enjoying each other. We joined a group that was sitting around a small barbecue.

We were welcomed immediately with hugs and kisses from all of them. Amelia was from Los Angeles, and she claimed to be some sort of fortune teller. She was pretty and had an infectious laugh. Dawn was from the Midwest. She was beautiful, with long brown hair, and a fantastic figure, but it was clear that she and Amelia only had eyes for each other. I was a bit shocked at first, but hey man, live and let live, right?

I noticed that Tara had snuggled up to Tray, who was a fine looking specimen of a man. He was tall and broad shouldered, had long, curly hair and his face was scruffy where his beard was growing in. He was wearing some cut off shorts and sandals, and nothing else, and you could see the muscles in his back ripple as he played the guitar.

Bill was a bit of a mystery to me. He was very handsome, with a calm, cool gaze, and I kept noticing that gaze on me every time I looked up, but he just didn't say very much. My stomach would flutter a bit every time I'd catch him looking at me.

Amelia braided our hair, while Dawn and Tray played guitar and sang songs. Bill was roasting marshmallows for us, and Tara couldn't take her eyes off of Tray. After a while I needed to use the restroom, and Bill offered to show me where they were.

It turned out Bill was also a southerner, only he'd been living in California for a while. He was a bit older than me, having already graduated from Berkeley the year before with a degree in mathematics. He said he was going into "computers," but I had no idea what that was. I did know that I had a desperate urge to kiss him as we walked back to our campsite, and so I did just that. We stood there entwined, in the middle of the park, as we kissed until we were breathless.

He whispered my name as he trailed his lips down my neck, and I was undone. I grabbed his hand and we made a beeline for our tents. When we got there, I saw that Tray and Tara had already disappeared, and Dawn had her head in Amelia's lap, as Amelia lazily played with her hair.

When we entered his tent, I suddenly became shy but Bill seemed to understand my hesitation and was very gentle with me, ensuring my pleasure before his. I'd never experienced an orgasm before, and I'm pretty sure all of Golden Gate Park heard my screams. I fell in love with Bill instantly, and smiled contentedly as we spent the night wrapped up in each other's arms.

The next morning, when we woke up, we made love again before wandering off to find some food for breakfast. A little later, I was sitting in front of our tents with Amelia and Dawn. Bill had gone off to find some hash, and Tray and Tara had hurried back into their tent after breakfast. Amelia took my hand and began to study it. "He's not for you," she told me, and I yanked my hand away from her, while a look of hurt crossed my face. She smiled and said, "Yours is still waiting, but he will find you. And he will need you."

I didn't know how to respond to her, but was saved from having to by Bill's return. We smoked some hash, and headed back to the Haight. Soon enough, my head was filled with art, music, and the feel of Bill's body against mine once more, and Amelia's words disappeared from my consciousness like smoke on a windy day.

**********************************************

I'd been in country for nearly a year when I got my orders to Khe Sahn. It was January 1967, and the 1-26, Bravo Company had lost its second lieutenant; I was going in as an individual replacement. Being a replacement sucked, but at least I wasn't some shake 'n bake. I had graduated from Officer Candidate School at Quantico earlier that year, and was immediately dumped into the shit just off the border with Laos. I knew I wasn't going to have the men's loyalty off the bat, but I also knew that I wouldn't have their disdain. Obedience may be part and parcel of a Marine's training, but loyalty and respect had to be earned.

Base camp sat on Hill 860, and while I'd lost a lot of my romantic notions about military service when I'd arrived in Vietnam, Hill 860 stood as a stark example of how much more my ideas would change. In addition to daily patrols, and humping up and down the hills carrying forty-five pounds of gear, food was a major issue in Khe Sahn. We were limited to two c-rats a day. It was meager, and it was crap, but we were Marines and we sucked it up.

In early March of that year, our commanding officer was walking over to the supply tent when a mortar took him, the tent, and three other marines straight to Kingdom Come. That left me in charge, and four men down. Within two weeks, I got a field promotion to first lieutenant, and the dead men's replacements showed up. One kid, an ROTC grad out of some school in the Midwest, was supposed to be my second lt., but he didn't know his ass from a hole in the ground. I wasn't sure he'd last the month. The other three were all fresh meat, just arrived in country. One of them, however, struck a chord with me. I don't know why, because we had absolutely nothing in common, but PFC Jason Stackhouse just had a way about him that made you like him.

Stackhouse was a scout sniper, and like any other new man, he got to walk point right off the bat. It's stupid really, putting the new guy out front, but tradition held and I wasn't going to fuck with it, because we were a superstitious lot; you didn't put short timers out front. He didn't do that bad all considering, and the men took to him. Later that night, as the others all sat around getting drunk on some homemade moonshine that one of them cooked up in their tent, Stackhouse started regaling us with stories of home. I had to hand it to him; the man knew how to tell a story.

Over the next few months, despite the conditions, Stackhouse and I grew close, or as close as an officer and an enlisted man can. He was a good man, a fucking amazing shot, and he didn't cave under pressure. He always had a story, and more often than not it involved his family. By the end of summer, we all knew his sister and grandmother as if they were our own. Then one day, after mail call, he called us all over. He'd gotten a letter from his sister. She was about to start school at Berkeley and had spent the summer in San Francisco. She told him that she'd spent the summer in the city, but I knew from things I'd read in letters from my friends and family, that if she spent the summer in San Francisco, she was editing a lot in her letter. Then, he showed us her picture; and for the first time since I'd arrived in Vietnam, I knew why I was there and what I was fighting for.

The picture was of her and another girl, laughing in the California sun. She was wearing a pair of cut off shorts and a peasant shirt, and had flowers in her long, blond hair. Her smile was beautiful and lit up her face. Maybe I'd been away from home too long. Maybe I hadn't been with a woman for too long. Or maybe the concept of love at first sight is real. Whatever the explanation, I was smitten and she became my reason for being. I had to survive Nam, because I had to get to her. Nothing else mattered. I didn't care if Communism failed or not. I didn't care if I could carve a career for myself in the Marines after the war ended. Only one thing mattered now—her. As the night wore on, and the men got drunk, Stackhouse allowed the picture to fall to the ground. I picked it up, intending to give it back to him, but I couldn't. I wiped off the mud, slipped it into my pocket before retiring to my quarters. I spent the next hour just staring at her picture, my fingers tracing the contours of her face over and over.

I tried to imagine what it would be like to be the recipient of that smile. I tried to figure out who took that picture. I was so fucking jealous of whoever it was; of someone who didn't even exist for me. I wanted to be the one to take that picture. I wanted to be the one who brought that smile to her face. I wanted . . . well, it didn't really matter what I wanted. I was in Nam and she was there. All I knew was that I would do my part to make sure she was safe.

Then, in September, it all went to hell. We were on a routine patrol when gunfire erupted around us. By the time it was all clear, Stackhouse was hit, and hit bad. We called in an evac helo, but as he lay in my arms, I knew he was dying. He told me to tell his sister and his grandmother that he loved them. He asked me to make sure his things got sent to them, and then he asked me to look after them. He told me he knew that he was supposed to ask. I didn't understand what that meant, but I promised him. It was an easy promise to make, since I'd already decided that if by some miracle I survived Nam, I was going to make her happiness my life's mission. I told him to shut up, that the helicopter would be there any minute, and that he was going to spend the rest of his life making his sister and his grandmother crazy, but we both knew it was bullshit. Two minutes before the helicopter arrived Stackhouse looked at me and said, "Be good to her," and then he shuddered, and the life faded from his eyes.

*************************************

Tara and I had just moved into our new apartment two days earlier when the call came. As Gran told me the news, I sank to the floor in complete shock. Jason was gone. I couldn't wrap my head around it. Tara took the phone from me and spoke to Gran, and I heard her sobbing as Gran told her the news as well. Tara may have found her soulmate in Tray, but Jason had always owned a piece of her heart.

I sat there, unmoving and unable to cry. Why couldn't I cry? I felt the pain. I felt the loss, and yet all I was able to do was sit there on my beanbag, and stare dumbly at the floor. This couldn't happen. All I had left were Jason and Gran, and Gran was no longer a young woman. How could Jason do that to me? How could he leave me? I got so angry, I began to scream and throw things around the apartment. Tara just stared at me, too heartbroken to say a thing. Finally, after I was spent, I got up and went to find Bill.

Bill and I had been together since that first day in Golden Gate Park. He was a lot of my firsts; my first day, my first lover, my first hit of acid, my first attempt at poetry, and my first heartbreak. I got to his place, or rather the apartment he was currently staying at, and opened the unlocked door. No one ever bothered with locks in the Haight. I walked to the room he usually used, needing to be held, to be soothed, to be told that my world was not coming to an end. I opened the door and gasped. There was Bill, lying on his bed, with a stunning brunette on top of him. Her name was Selah, and all of us had worked together in the Free Store that summer. He didn't even have the decency to seem embarrassed. He just held out his hand and asked me to join them. When I shook my head, he simply shrugged and continued moving with her as if it was my loss. I left the room on shaky legs. I was so drained by the news about Jason, and then by what I'd just seen, that I couldn't even find the energy to dredge up any righteous anger, and I walked back to my place slowly.

I had spent the summer living communally, sharing everything with my friends and whoever else came along. I'd watched with a knowing grin as my friends and acquaintances paired off randomly, or engaged in group sex. It was all cool, I told myself. It was the Summer of Love, a summer of free love—of love and sex given and received without expectations, without society's rules dictating who could love who, when, and how. However, I'd had no desire to do that. I didn't judge it, but it wasn't for me. I was happy with Bill, and didn't need more. I thought he felt the same way, but apparently I was wrong, and it left a bitter taste in my mouth.

I returned to the apartment to find Amelia and Dawn helping Tara pick up the pieces of my tantrum. Amelia came to me wrapped her arms around me and whispered, "Sorry." I looked at her and I knew she wasn't talking about Jason. Her words from earlier that summer rang in my head, _He's not for you. Yours is still waiting, but he will find you. And he will need you._

Amelia, Dawn, and Tray accompanied me and Tara home for the funeral. People in town looked at us funny throughout, but Gran ignored it. I suppose a group of hippies out of San Francisco would look odd in a small town in Louisiana, but that was what we were, and God bless Gran, she didn't blink an eye at us, even when Tray and Tara opted to sleep in the van we'd driven home in.

After the funeral, Sam Merlotte, my old boss and friend, invited everyone back to the bar for drinks on the house. It was incredibly generous of him, and I told him so, but he just brushed his hand across my cheek and said, "He was a good man, chère, and you're a good friend." I couldn't help but feel that there was more to that last statement, but I also couldn't pay it any mind. There was too much upheaval in my life just then.

Terry was a wreck throughout the entire day. Well, truth be told, Terry had been a wreck since his discharge two months earlier, or so I'd gathered. Gran said Terry was "shell shocked." Today we call it post traumatic stress disorder, but back then in our little corner of the world, we didn't know a whole hell of a lot about psychology. What we did know was that one of our own was hurting, and the entire town banded together to help see him through his troubles. Sam gave him a job, old Maxine Fortenberry gave him the room over her garage, and whenever he seemed to be slipping away to wherever he went in his head, someone made sure to be there for him when he got back.

We had to leave the day after the funeral, if we were going to get back in time for the start of the fall semester. Before we left, Gran gave me a letter to read. It was from Jason's commanding officer.

_Dear Mrs. and Ms. Stackhouse,_

_It is with a heavy heart that I write this letter. Although I know you have already been informed of Jason's death, I wanted to write to you personally to tell you of the circumstances. I do not write as Jason's lieutenant, but as his friend._

_We were on a routine patrol when we were ambushed, and began taking fire from what seemed like every direction. Although several of the men panicked, Jason kept his head about him and did his job. I have no doubt that his skill with his rifle saved several lives that day, possibly even my own. I just wish that one of them could have been his. I felt like you should know how courageously he fought, and that he died a hero. His last words were about you._

_Jason spoke of you both often. I think it helped him feel at home so far away from anything familiar. Truth be told, I think his stories helped all of us. I know they helped me, and I now find myself relying on the memories of those stories to get me through the nights. If . . . when, I get out of here, it would be my great honor to call on you both to pay my respects. Until then, I hope this letter finds you both as well as can be expected under the circumstances._

_Sincerely,_

_Lt. Eric Northman_

Over the course of the next few months, I found myself reading that letter over and over, until I had it memorized. I often thought of writing to him, but I never knew what to say. Jason had written to us about Lt. Northman before. Jason made him seem larger than life. Apparently he really cared for his men. Jason also said that he never gave them a dangerous order that he wouldn't participate in himself. So it was that instead of writing to him, I lay in bed and tried to imagine what Lt. Northman looked like, but the image constantly changed. Some nights he was tall, dark and brooding, and other nights he was small and wiry, with light hair. I just couldn't get a fix on him in my mind, and for some reason that really bothered me. Sometimes I would dream of him, and in my dream I knew him immediately, but when I'd wake up he'd be gone, and I would try to grab onto the memory, but it was like trying to grab mist, and I couldn't remember a thing.

********************************************************

Things in Khe Sahn were heating up. By December we hadn't had a hot meal in two months, and we were humping up and down Hill 881 with five gallon jugs just to get water – eight hundred and eighty one meters. Some days were really bad, though. One time we were in a trench, and a mortar hit nearby. Next thing I knew, a bloody boot with part of the foot still attached landed next to me. Another time, we were cleaning out a VC village with Alpha Company. Men, women, even children . . . their bodies were everywhere. Someone had shot back at us; we never figured out who started the shooting, but damn it if the VC were shooting, we had to shoot back. I backed out of a hut, after a search showed it was empty, to see a little girl crouched down by her mother. She was shaking her and begging her to wake up. I didn't need to speak the language to understand that, and I didn't need to be a medic to see that the back of her mother's head had been blown out. Those were the images I carried with me, that stayed with me, and caused me immeasurable guilt. I kept Sookie's picture in my pocket all the time, and her smile would see me through the worst nights, but that day . . . that day I knew I would need more than her smile to see me through.

It was during a firefight near the end of December when I was hit. Three of my men had been taken down by a sniper, but two were still alive, writhing on the ground. I gave an order for covering fire, and went in to get them. I managed to drag one of them out, but before I could get to the other, a round tore through my hip. A helicopter evac took me to Charlie Med, where they stabilized me, but then I was shipped out to Okinawa for surgery. It was in Okinawa that I was awarded my Purple Heart and a Bronze Star, for valor under fire. Two of my men died, and I got a fucking medal. I spent two months in the hospital, until they could remove the pins from my hip, before I was sent back to the States, where I did my rehab at Camp Pendleton.

By April I was walking on my own, although I had to use a cane. The doctors thought that eventually I might not need it, but I would probably always have a limp. Given what I'd seen during the war, the severed limbs and field amputations, I considered myself lucky, and thanked the doctors for their care.

I was also presented with a decision to make. I was offered an honorable discharge. My term of service was not yet up, however, given my injuries, I would never be able to serve in the field again, and the Marines gave me the option. For the last ten years of my life, I had imagined making the military my career, like my father before me. I was a Marine, and I was proud of that, but Nam had changed my perspective on many things. I had some time to decide, and some accumulated leave, so I got on the next transport plane to Shreveport, Louisiana.

A day and a half later, I found myself in Bon Temps. I stopped at a local watering hole, Merlotte's, for a shot of courage. I knew Sookie was probably still at school, although since it was nearing Easter, a small part of me hoped she was home for spring break. I walked up to the bar, nodded at the man behind the counter, and asked for a shot of whiskey. When I made to pay, he stopped me.

"No way man. No soldier pays for drinks here, but even so, no one pays today. Today we are paying our respects."

I nodded to the man, and asked him his name, and who they were paying their respects to. The answer knocked the wind out of me.

"I'm Sam Merlotte," he said, "and today we are paying our respects to Adele Stackhouse."

I sat down hard on the bar stool, and I could feel the color drain from my face. "Wha . . . what happened?" I asked.

"Did you know Mrs. Stackhouse?" He asked, as his eyes began to look me over once more, trying to place me.

"I served with her grandson. I was coming to pay my respects, but I had no idea . . ." my voice trailed off.

I saw Sam's eyes look over my uniform once more, his gaze falling on my medals and ribbons, and on the silver bar on my shoulder. Realization came over his face. "You're Lt. Northman, aren't you?"

I nodded.

"Shit! Jason wrote all about you," he said, as he poured me another drink.

"Mr. Merlotte . . ." I began.

"Sam, call me Sam," he said.

"Sam, what happened to Mrs. Stackhouse?"

Sam's face became grim. "Mrs. Stackhouse had taken in a boarder you see. A guy by the name of Rene. Well, it turns out he had killed his sister. Apparently Mrs. Stackhouse found something in his room when she was cleaning, something she shouldn't have." Sam paused. "Sheriff Dearborn thinks Rene came home early and caught Mrs. Stackhouse by surprise." Sam swallowed hard. "He had a knife, and . . ."

Unbidden, images came to my mind. Jumbled images. I saw Mrs. Stackhouse lying in the jungle, with a VC knife sticking out of her. I saw Sookie lying in a pool a blood. Blood. So much blood. Everywhere. I gripped the bar top, my nails vainly trying to drive themselves through the hardened resin. I saw Jason lying in my arms, as the blood and life drained out of his body, only this time he was saying, "Why? Why didn't you watch out for them?"

I felt a hand on my shoulder, shaking me. "Hey man, are you okay?" Sam asked.

I looked at him, and tried to find my voice. I spoke, but it came out in a hoarse whisper. "Sookie?"

"Oh no, man. Sookie's okay. At least, I think she is. She wasn't home. Out at Berkeley still. That's just it, though. No one can get a hold of her. Her phone was disconnected, and Tara stopped talking to her mamma right after Jason's funeral, so Lettie Mae doesn't know how to reach them either. The sheriff doesn't know what to do with the body, and no one knows what to do about a funeral."

And just like that, I knew what I had to do. "I'll find her," I told him. "I'll find her, and I'll bring her home," I said. Less than twenty-four hours later, I was on a flight to San Francisco.

***********************************************************

We made it back to Berkeley in time for the start of school. At first I was only going through the motions, still reeling from my brother's death. Eventually, however, I found an outlet for my pain when I joined the growing anti-war movement. Much of my free time was spent at meetings, or making signs, or attending rallies and sit-ins. Berkeley turned out to be everything Tara and I thought it would be, and we delighted in the opportunity to shed our small town notions and try to make a difference in the world.

As fulfilling as my academic and political life was, my personal life was a void. I flitted in and out of relationships, never willing to put my heart on the line. It was still too raw from Bill. Occasionally I engaged in random sexual encounters, although they weren't particularly satisfying; there was a history professor, a guest speaker at one of our rallies, and a few other students. One of them, a zoology major named John Quinn who wanted to move to India to study tigers in their natural habitat, wouldn't leave me alone for a while, until finally Tray stepped in. I don't know what Tray said to him, but he mostly let me be after that. Although, every once in a while I would catch him staring at me, and I couldn't help but wonder if he was following me.

After the Tet Offensive at the end of January, our protests stepped up, culminating in a big march and sit in we planned for April. At first everything was going great. Then a bunch of pro-Vietnam fraternity guys got in the way. A fight broke out between some of our protestors and some of theirs, and before I knew it chaos had erupted. I looked around desperately for Tray and Tara, but I'd lost them. I pushed my way through a crowd of people, which turned out to be a big mistake, as I wound up face to face with the frat boys who incited the little riot.

"Hippie bitch!" One of them yelled at me as he pushed me toward his friend.

"Commie!" shouted another as they kept pushing me back and forth between them. Soon, they were also grabbing at me and shouting obscenities. I would be lying if I said I wasn't terrified.

Then I heard a strange, yet hauntingly familiar voice yell out my name, right before I saw a large fist connect with the face of one of my attackers. I was knocked to the ground, but not before I saw a giant of a man crack a cane against a frat boy's leg, causing him to fall to the ground howling. My savior turned to another one, and in a blur of movement, he had him down on the ground and was pummeling him until the kid's face began to resemble hamburger. I jumped up and ran to him. I grabbed the giant's shoulders and begged him to stop. He turned to look at me, his eyes wild and filled with pain, yet they were the most beautiful blue eyes I had ever seen.

"Please, stop!" I begged. "He's out, look, he's out. He's not even fighting back." Not only was the guy not fighting back, but his friends were busy trying to drag their injured buddies away.

I continued to look into those impossibly blue eyes, and was startled when I heard him whisper, "Sookie." Immediately his eyes were roaming over me, assessing me to see if I was hurt. It had the precise quality borne of practice.

I finally tore my gaze away from his eyes, and realized that this mountain of a man was absolutely gorgeous, and that he was in uniform. I felt a lurch in the pit of my stomach, and I just knew. "Eric?" I asked. It was just like in my dreams—I simply knew it was him. I caught some movement out of the corner of my eye, and in a flash, Eric was in front of me prepared to defend me again, but it was only Hamburger Face's friend coming to pick him up.

"Eric," I said again, as I touched his arm. "I'm fine, Eric. Let's get out of here." I could see him visibly relax as my words got through to him. He took me by the arm and steered me out of the crowd. We didn't say anything as I pondered how this was happening. What was he doing here? How did he know who I was? Better yet, how did I know who he was? Those and a thousand other questions were flooding my brain, so I didn't realize that he had stopped walking and turned, until I ran right into his chest. I looked up at him, and even though his eyes had lost that wildness, there was still so much pain and loss in them. I couldn't begin to imagine what caused it, but it reminded me a bit of Terry.

I suddenly realized that he was talking. What was he saying? Why was he apologizing?

"I just wish I had gotten there sooner. Maybe I could have stopped him. I don't know," he said as he ran his hand through his close-cropped hair. Even short like that, I could tell it was blond.

"What are you talking about? I'm fine. You got there just in time."

He grabbed me by my shoulders. "Sookie, I'm not talking about you. Your grandmother, Sookie, your grandmother was killed."

I clutched my hand to my chest, not even paying attention to the fact that my "Make Love Not War" button was uncomfortably digging into my breast. My breathing quickened, and my field of vision narrowed. Then, my world tipped sideways and everything went black.

When I came to, I was in my own apartment looking up into the worried faces of Tara, Tray, Amelia, and Dawn. Tara's face was streaked with tears, and I knew Eric had told her the news as well. I had a momentary urge to start saying "I had a wonderful dream, Auntie Em and you were there, and you were there," but then I remembered why I'd passed out and it seemed wholly inappropriate.

"Eric," I croaked, feeling an inexplicable panic at the thought that he had left.

"I'm here," I heard his voice. It was a deep bass, with a slight rumble in his chest. It almost sounded like a growl, and I found myself even more drawn to him. He sat by me on the couch, and gingerly brushed the hair out of my eyes. "Tell me," I said. And he did. Silent tears poured down my face, and when he was done I found myself buried in his chest, sobbing.

After a few minutes, I straightened up and immediately apologized, "I'm so sorry. I've probably ruined your uniform. I'll . . ." he stopped me with a finger to my lips.

"Sookie, it's fine."

It took a few hours, but somehow I'd let my professors and the dean know that I had to go home for an unspecified length of time. I got packed, and was on the I80 heading home to Bon Temps, with Lt. Eric Northman behind the wheel of my Ford Falcon. If I thought about it too hard, my head spun. I needed to relax. I reached into my purse and pulled out a baggie and some papers. I finished rolling, put it to my lips, and pressed the lighter on the dash. I caught Eric staring at me. Again he was looking at me with those haunted eyes, so full of pain and of . . . need . . . and my breath hitched. _He will find you. And he will need you_. Amelia's words came crashing through like a torrent. I pulled the joint away from my mouth, the lighter forgotten for the moment. I had never seen such stark need in my life. It tore through me like a physical pain, and I suddenly realized I needed him just as much. I was alone in the world, with no family save for my friends, and I felt bereft and adrift. There was an aching hole where my heart was supposed to be, and I knew somehow that he could fill it. And God help me, I wasn't going to wait.

I licked my lips and said, "Eric, pull over."

*******************************************************

I don't know how I knew she would be at the rally. Something inside just guided me there. When I realized it had degenerated in a full blown mêlée, I felt my insides spasm in fear. The idea that I would, once again, be too late and that she might be hurt, or worse, brought bile to the back of my throat. I shoved my way roughly through the crowd, never happier with my six foot four frame than at that moment. When I saw what they were doing to her—laying their hands on her, scaring her—my vision went red. In an instant I was back in Khe Sahn. I was in a village where they killed women and children. But I was a Marine; I was _her_ Marine, and fuck me if _anyone_ was going to lay a hand on her like that. And I was so angry and scared that I just kept hitting and hitting, because I didn't know what else to do, or how else to let it out.

Then she spoke, and she touched me, and I felt myself relax as if she was a shot of heroin. I'd seen that look on the faces of some of the men back in Khe Sahn when they chased the dragon. I recalled the feeling of the morphine they stabbed into my hip when I was shot. This was even better.

When I finally got her out of there, I began apologizing. Apologizing for not getting to her grandmother sooner, for not saving her, and then I realized she thought I meant her. She was so close to me then, and her hands were on my chest where she'd braced herself as she'd run into me; the heat of her touch seared me. When I finally told her why I was there, I would have given anything—my leg, hell my soul—not to see that look on her face ever again. And when she fainted, I felt shame and guilt that I enjoyed having her in my arms. I realized, however, that I was completely fucked, as I had no idea where I was, where she lived, or what to do next. Luckily, a moment later, another couple came running up, shouting her name. After a tense minute when I thought the man, who I later learned was Tray, was going to kill me for touching Sookie, I explained everything. Tara began to cry, but she and Tray helped me get Sookie back to their apartment, and I laid her down on the couch.

When she woke up, she asked for me, and my heart momentarily soared, cracking the bitter shell that surrounded it, until I realized that she probably just wanted to know what happened. I sat next to her, and explained everything. I couldn't help myself as I reached out to brush her hair from her face. Her skin was so soft, and I felt my fingers tingle from the contact. Before I knew it, however, her face was buried in my chest and I had my arms around her, and again I knew it was wrong to be so happy in her time of distress, but having her close to me like that was indescribable, and the shell cracked a bit more.

Her friends were nothing short of miraculous, and I liked them right away, if for no other reason than the way they took care of her. Sookie had created a little family for herself, one that fiercely protected her if Tray's earlier behavior had been any indication. Within a few hours, she and I were packed into her car, and after a tearful goodbye with Tara, who would not be allowed to miss classes, I had steered us onto the highway heading back to Louisiana.

We had been driving for a little while, and I was lost in thought when I saw her reach toward the lighter. I stared at her as she put the joint to her mouth, and I felt my body stir just at the sight of her parted lips. Her breath hitched, and I saw something that could only be described as a dawning comprehension, and then raw need and desire settled into her eyes.

When she licked her lips, I felt myself begin to swell, but when I heard her throaty whisper telling me to pull over, I became instantly hard. I'd never been so desperate for a freeway exit in my life. We stopped at a lake somewhere near Hayward, and I pulled over in the park-like grounds. I turned to look at her, and saw my desire reflected back at me. Her back was against the door, her face was flushed, and she was gripping the door handle like she would rip it off. I cautiously opened my door, and backed out of the car, and she did the same. I never took my gaze off of her, and our eyes locked over the roof of the car. My heart was beating so hard that the only thing I could hear was the rush of blood through my body as it roared through my ears. I began to come around the front of the car, towards her. She stood like a deer in headlights, and for a moment I felt like a predator stalking its prey, only in the wild, the prey doesn't suddenly lunge at the predator.

Her little arms wrapped around my neck and pulled me to her, her lips parting the instant they touched mine, and I moaned into her mouth as I circled her waist with my hands and pulled her tightly to me. Her breasts were crushed against my chest, and my hands slid down over her hips to cup her ass and press her closer to me. It was her turn to moan as she came into contact with my hardness, and I may have growled as she wrapped her legs around my waist and ground down on me. I sat her down on the hood of the car, positioning myself between her legs, and cupped her face in my hands for a moment, just staring at the beautiful creature in front of me, before I crashed my lips back into hers.

She allowed my tongue access, and as I tasted her I knew I'd found salvation. In that kiss I found forgiveness. I found love. I found home. Nothing had ever tasted sweeter. My mouth moved along her jaw, peppering kisses down her neck, and stopping to kiss and suck on what I discovered to be a very sweet spot just below her ear. Her hands worked furiously to unbutton the jacket of my service uniform, which she quickly pushed off my shoulders. She growled in frustration as the smaller buttons of my shirt gave her pause, and finally she just tore the damn thing open, sending buttons flying everywhere. My tie still hung askew about my neck, but she flung it over my shoulder as she attacked my chest, feverishly kissing and sucking on the skin, until she finally reached my nipples, which she teased and tormented with her tongue and her teeth. I was achingly hard and it was the most delicious agony.

I ran my hands up her nearly bare back, and untied the knot that held up her simple, scarf-like dress. It fluttered down to her waist, exposing her stunning breasts. I ran my fingers along her collar bones, and down the curves of her breasts, until they just brushed the undersides. I felt her shudder and then groan as I took them in my hands. They were full and heavy, and they fit my hands like they were made for me. I ran my thumbs over her nipples, and they hardened at my touch. I moved my mouth from hers and bent my head to take one of her nipples into my mouth, teasing and tasting her as she did me, before switching to the other side.

My hands found their way to her legs, and I slid her skirt all the way up, exposing every inch of her beautiful, sun-kissed skin. My fingers trailed up her thighs, until I reached her panties and I could feel the wet heat of her. I curled my fingers over the edges and slowly began to tug them down as she lifted her ass to help me. I got to my knees as I finally pulled them off, and I began to kiss my way back up her legs. The sounds coming from her were driving me mad with want, but I wouldn't have given up one inch of what I was enjoying. I got to her thighs and looked up at her, seeking permission.

"Don't you dare stop," she threatened, her voice thick with desire.

A whispered, "fuck," escaped my lips, before I brought them to her center. I flicked out my tongue experimentally, tasting her, exploring her, reveling in the feel of her lips against mine and the tickle of her curls against my skin. I let out a desperate moan. She was delicious, a heady mixture of womanliness, sex, and something that was just indefinably her, and right then, at least for that time, she was mine. I licked, probed, and nibbled, until she was whimpering. I slid a finger into her, and then I sucked the hardened bundle of nerves, and was rewarded with more of her mewling, kittenish sounds, before I felt her thighs tighten and she spilled herself all over my hand. She groaned her satisfaction as she called out my name. There was no sexier sound in the world than my name falling from her lips in pleasure, and I was determined to hear that sound many more times in my life.

She pulled me up and kissed me again, her tongue teasing my lips, as her hands found their way to my pants. She palmed me through them, and I moaned her name. I couldn't get my belt undone fast enough, and Sookie's hands made short work of my trousers. She slid down between my legs, pushing the fabric past my knees, and freed me from my boxers. She looked up at me before she took her tongue and licked me from base to tip, pushing it into the slit at the top and gathering what had pooled there. "Shit," I growled, and then she enveloped me with her hot mouth and let out a throaty sound that reverberated through my body, and I cried out in pleasure, a raw, primal sound that erupted from my chest, and carried so much pain away with it. I tangled my hand in her silky hair, gently guiding her movements, until I felt my hips thrusting of their own accord, and I pulled back.

I reached down and lifted her, and then I laid her down on the hood of the car and positioned myself over her. I stared down at her, momentarily unable to comprehend how my angel had stepped out of her picture and arrived here in the flesh. Her long hair was flowing out beneath her, and her cheeks were flushed. Then she looked directly into my eyes and whispered, "Eric." And that was all it took. I thrust into her in one swift movement, and we both cried out. I held myself still for a moment, looking at her as she was spread before me, yielding to me, opening to me. I pulled almost all the way out and slammed back into her with all the grace of a freight train, but my need for her was all consuming, and from the sound of her cries, she felt the same way.

The warm, slick feel of her as she pulled me in, her muscles clenching around me, was exquisite torture. I wanted to come, but I didn't want the feeling to end. I drove into her over and over, letting her body soothe my demons and her womanhood heal my soul. Her hips drove up to meet mine with every stroke, and she whispered my name over and over and over, like a prayer. Every time I pushed into her, I pushed back the darkness. Every time my name spilled from her lips, her grace surrounded me. And every time she thrust up to meet me, she welcomed me home.

Finally, I grabbed her hips and lifted her a little more, angling deeper. I knew I wasn't going to last much longer. "Sookie. Look at me, love," I demanded. Instantly her eyes focused on mine. "Come for me, angel. Come for me." I brought one of my hands between us. A keening wail erupted from her as her orgasm shuddered through her. Her back arched, driving me deeper into her, and she screamed out, "Oh God, Eric!" At the feel of her climax, I reached my peak and tumbled over with her. I thrust deeply and stilled, muscles clenching, as I emptied myself into her. I swept down for another kiss, and then rolled us over so that I lay on the car, with her on top of me, or else my bum hip was going to give out and dump us on the ground. I was still deep inside her, and I never wanted to move. She put her head on my chest, but after a moment I felt her tense. I wrapped my arms tightly around her, trying to convey with my body what I couldn't find the words to say—that I would never let her go, never leave her, and never hurt her. I'd made a promise to a dying man, and I intended to keep it. More importantly, I wanted her to know that my survival rested in her tiny hands and generous heart, and it had from the first moment I laid eyes on her.

***************************

I kept my head on his chest, and listening to the wild thumping of his heart, and realized that its erratic pace matched mine perfectly; our bodies were strangely and utterly tuned to one another. The enormity of our connection, the philosophical implications of this apparent destiny, and our overwhelming need for each other, threatened to swamp me, and I felt a rising panic. As if he sensed it, his arms tightened around me a little more and I was aware of his warm lips on my head as he whispered soothing words. At that moment, I knew in the core of my being that I would never be alone again. All the pain we both went through almost seemed like necessary steps towards bringing us together, a confluence of events and circumstances destined to get us to each other, and while neither of us would wish to endure those tragedies again, we also could not possibly fathom our lives any other way.

Our daughter, Dawn Adele, would say I was being "hippie dippie," and accuse me of having smoked too much, but it was the truth. And no, Dawn was not born nine months after the events I described, although I suppose that was a miracle as well, all things considered. No. We continued on our way to Bon Temps and laid my grandmother to rest. I secured the house, and Eric and I returned together to Berkeley, where I wound up studying psychology. Eric left the Marines, and went back to school as well. He had graduated college with a degree in engineering, and eventually became an architect. Today he mainly designs and builds commercial properties, most recently one of Shreveport's hottest new nightclubs, although he did personally design and oversee the additions to the farmhouse.

We got married a year after our return to Berkeley, and returned to Louisiana as soon as I graduated. While pregnant with our daughter, I finished my masters in psychology at LSU, and eventually began a practice that specialized in treating veterans and their families. People told me I had a knack for hearing what they were trying to say, as if I could read their minds. I think it's just a matter of being a good listener, and understanding where they're coming from.

The year before I got pregnant, Dawn succumbed to breast cancer, and Amelia had never left her side. As soon as Eric and I saw our daughter's face, we knew what her name would be. Jason Corbett was born two years later, and did his best to live up to his namesake, although his fancy-free days were short in number. Terry seemed to find some peace and had married a lovely woman named Maudette. Their daughter, Amy, was five years Jason's junior, but had him wrapped around her finger from the time she eight, when she'd leaned over to me and whispered conspiratorially, "Aunt Sookie, I'm gonna marry Jason." I swear, on their wedding day Jason still looked like he was trying to figure out how it had even happened. Like I said, some things are just meant to be.

Today Eric and I were sitting on the porch and watching as Terry was showed Jason and Amy's son, our grandson, how to practice casting his first "real" fishing pole before heading to the pond to do just that. Dawn Adele's husband Alcide was manning the barbecue, and she was sitting on a blanket with the baby, Amelia, and Amelia's partner Claudia. Over on the swings, Tray and Tara's son was pushing his twins higher and higher, while Tray and Tara sat drinking beers and laughing with Sam and his wife Arlene.

The radio was set to a contemporary station, and music drifted over the yard. Eric took my hand and smiled at me. His eyes could still elicit an ungodly response from my body, and as much as I loved having everyone down for a visit, a small part of me couldn't wait until they were all gone, and it was just the two of us, entwined under the open sky once more.

I listened to the song's lyrics, and I knew Eric did as well when I saw him turn to look at me. "Always and forever," he whispered, and brushed his fingers across my cheek. I smiled and squeezed his hand as we listened. Always and forever.

_A/N: Before I start getting reviews, emails and angry pm's about them not using condoms, I'd like to remind everyone that this is set in 1968, and people simply were not as afraid of sexually transmitted diseases as they are today. AIDS did not yet exist, and pregnancy was usually a woman's biggest concern._

_Also, I have links to what Sookie and Eric are wearing when they head home to Bon Temps, or at least reasonable facsimiles, in my profile.  
_

_The song they are listening to at the end of the story:_

_To Lose My Life_ – by White Lies

_He said to lose my life or lose my love,  
That's the nightmare I've been running from.  
So let me hold you in my arms a while,  
I was always careless as a child.  
And there's a part of me that still believes,  
My soul will soar above the trees.  
But a desperate fear flows through my blood,  
That our dead loves buried beneath the mud._

_Let's grow old together,  
And die at the same time.  
Let's grow old together,  
And die at the same time._

_I said I've got no time I have to go,  
And I was more right then now I'll ever know.  
He said my heart is faint, will minds regret,  
And left him crying next to the chapel's steps._

_Let's grow old together,  
And die at the same time.  
Let's grow old together,  
And die at the same time._

_He said…_

_Let's grow old together,  
And die at the same time.  
Let's grow old together,  
And die at the same time._

_He said…_

_He said to lose my life or lose my love,  
That's the nightmare I've been running from.  
So let me hold you in my arms a while,  
I was careless as a child.  
There's a part of me that still believes,  
My soul will soar above the trees.  
A desperate fear flows through my blood,  
Our dead loves buried beneath the mud.  
A desperate fear flows through my blood,  
Our dead loves buried beneath the mud_


End file.
